He Lover of Death, page 30
And now look! What if that little varmint gnawed through the fuel hose? What a shambles that would be!
While he took off the hood, drove the mouse away, disconnected the hose and connected it again (undamaged, thank God), night fell and Senka didn’t even notice. He went back into the house just as the clock struck twelve. The dirge echoed through the apartment and Senka suddenly found it hard to breathe. He felt so afraid and so homeless he could have howled like a stray dog.
Luckily Mr Nameless showed up soon after. Looking quite different from the way he was earlier on: not cheerful and contented now, but gloomy, even angry.
‘Why aren’t you ready? Have you f-forgotten you’re supposed to be playing Motya? P-Put on the wig, the skullcap and all the rest. I won’t m-make you up much, it’s dark in the b-basement. I’ll just g-glue on the nose.’
‘But it’s too early. We don’t have to be there till three,’ Senka said in a dismal voice.
Another urgent m-matter has come up and I have to d-deal with it. Let’s go on the M-Magic Carpet. It will be a f-final test before the race.’
Well, how about that? Senka had buffed it and polished it, and now all that work was all down the drain. Though one more trial run couldn’t do any harm ...
Senka put on his kike costume without any more fuss. It was better than being a mamselle.
Erast Petrovich put on a beautiful motoring suit: shiny leather, with squeaky yellow spats. What a lovely sight!
The engineer put his little revolver (it was called a ‘Herstal’, made to special order in the foreign city of Liège) in the pocket behind his back, and Senka’s heart skipped a beat. Would they live to see the start? God only knew.
‘You t-take the wheel,’ Mr Nameless ordered. ‘Show me what you c-can do.’
Senka put on a pair of goggles and squeezed his ears into his oversized skullcap so it wouldn’t fly off. At least he’d get a ride before it all ended!
‘To Samotechny B-Boulevard.’
They drove like the wind and were there in five minutes. Erast Petrovich got out at a small wooden house and rang the bell. Someone opened the door.
Of course, Senka couldn’t control his curiosity – he went to take a look at the copper plate hanging on the door. ‘F. F. Weltman, Pathological Anatomist, Dr of Medicine’. God only knew what a ‘pathological anatomist’ was, but ‘Dr’ meant ‘doctor’. Was someone ill, then? Not Masa, surely, Senka thought in alarm. Then he heard steps on the other side of the door and ran back to the machine.
The doctor was a puny little man, dishevelled and untidy, and he blinked all the time. He stared at Senka in fright and replied to his polite ‘good health to you’ with a shy nod.
‘Who’s this?’ Senka asked in a whisper when the titch climbed in.
‘Never m-mind,’ Erast Petrovich replied gloomily. ‘He’s someone from a completely d-different story, who has nothing to do with our j-job today. We’re going to Rozhdestvensky Boulevard. At the d-double!’
Well, once the motor starting roaring, there was no more conversation to be had.
The engineer told him to stop at the corner of a dark lane. ‘Stay in the c-car and don’t leave it.’
That went without saying. Everyone knew the kind of people who were out at that time of night. Before you could even blink, they’d have a nut or bolt unscrewed, for a fishing weight, or just out of plain mischief.
Senka put a spanner on the seat beside him – just let them try anything on.
He asked the doctor: ‘Is someone ill? Are you going to treat them?’
The doctor didn’t answer, but Mr Nameless said: ‘Yes. S-Surgical intervention is required.’
The pair of them walked over to a house with lit-up windows. They knocked and went in, and Senka was left on his tod.
He waited for a long time. Maybe a whole hour. First he sat there, worrying about seeing the Ghoul in Yeroshenko’s basement. Then he just felt bored. And towards the end he started fretting that they’d be late. A couple of times he thought he heard some kind of creaking noise in the house. God only knew what they were getting up to.
Erast Petrovich finally came out – alone and without his leather cap. When he came closer, Senka saw that Mr Nameless was not looking as neat and tidy as before: his jacket was torn at the shoulder and there was a scratch on his forehead. He licked his right hand –the knuckles were oozing blood!
‘What happened?’ Senka asked, alarmed. ‘And where’s the doc? Is he staying with the patient?’
‘Let’s g-go,’ the engineer barked. ‘Show me your skill. Here’s an exam f-for you: if you can get us to Khitrovka in t-ten minutes, I’ll take you on the run as m-my assistant.’
Senka pulled on the throttle even harder than that first time. The automobile shot forward and tore into the night, swaying on its steel springs.
The engineer’s assistant! To Paris! With Erast Petrovich!
Oh Lord, don’t let the motor stall or overheat! Don’t let a tyre crack on a big cobble! Don’t let the transmission come uncoupled! You can do everything, Lord!
At the corner of Myasnitskaya Street the motor sneezed and died. A blockage!
Senka was choking on his tears as he blew off the carburettor, and that took two minutes at least. That stroke of bad luck meant he didn’t make it in time.
‘Stop,’ said the engineer at the intersection of the boulevard and Pokrovka Street. He looked at his Breguet watch. ‘Twelve m-minutes and ten seconds.’
Senka hung his head in shame and sobbed, wiping away the snot with his ginger sidelocks. Ah, Fortune, what a low, mean bitch you are.
‘An excellent result,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And the c-carburettor was cleaned in record time. Congratulations. I was j-joking about the ten minutes, of course. I hope you will n-not refuse to accompany me to Paris as my assistant? You know yourself that Masa is n-not suited to play that p-particular role. He will ride behind us in a carriage, c-carrying the spare wheels and other parts.’
Unable to believe his luck, Senka babbled: ‘And the three of us will go? All the way to Paris?’
Mr Nameless thought for a moment. ‘Well, you s-see, Senya,’ he said, ‘probably one other individual will g-go with us.’ Then he paused and added quietly, rather uncertainly, ‘Perhaps even t-two ...’
Well, we know who one of them is, don’t we now, Senka thought with a scowl. After all the fun and games Erast Petrovich had lined up for tonight, there’d be no way Death could stay in Moscow. But who could the other one be? Surely the sensei hadn’t decided to steal Fedora Nikitishna away from her husband?
Suddenly Senka felt sorry for the poor doorman Mikheich – how would he manage without his boiled fruit and his pies and Fedora’s sweet caresses? But he felt even sorrier for himself. It would be worse than the torments of hell to watch the engineer and Death settling into their love on the way to Paris. And it would be the last straw if that meant the record was never set!
Mr Nameless interrupted Senka’s musings when his Breguet jangled again.
‘Ten m-minutes to three. Time to b-begin the operation. I’m going to g-get the superintendent. I’ll leave the auto at the station –it will be s-safer there. And I’ll make sure that Solntsev only b-brings one assistant. And off you go, Senka, to Yeroshenko’s d-dosshouse, to the rendezvous. Lead the Ghoul through the underground p-passage, and don’t forget that you’re an idiot. Don’t say anything articulate, just b-bleat. There’ll be a critical moment when the P-Prince and Deadeye appear. If it looks as though things may t-turn nasty, the boy Motya can recover the g-gift of speech. Just say: “Silver – over there” and p-point. That will keep them busy at l-least until I arrive.’ The engineer pondered something for a moment and muttered under his breath. ‘It’s not g-good that I’ve been left without my Herstal, and there’s no t-time to get hold of another revolver ...’
‘But how can you go in there with those wolves with no pistol?’ Senka gasped. ‘You put it in your pocket, I saw you! Did you drop it somewhere, or what?’
‘That’s exactly what I d-did, dropped it . . . Never mind, we’ll m-manage without a revolver. The plan of operations d-does not require any shooting.’ Erast Petrovich smiled jauntily and flicked Senka’s false nose with his finger. ‘And n-now, my Jew, it’s up to you.’
HOW SENKA TRIED TO KEEP UP
Agh, he was so sick of this damned Yerokha – this rotten musty cellar smell, this pitch-black darkness, those muffled sounds coming from behind the doors of the ‘apertiments’ – even in the dead of night the people living underground were still squabbling, or fighting, or singing in their ugly voices, or crying. But as he went farther and farther along the damp corridors, into the bowels of the Yerokha, it got quieter and quieter, as if the earth itself had swallowed up all the sounds of human living, or existence, to use the scholarly term. And then the memories came flooding back, a hundred times worse than the stench of the basement and the raucous drunken bawling.
This was where the unknown killer had attacked Senka from behind, pulling his hair and almost breaking his neck – Senka’s hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.
The Siniukhin family had lived behind that door there – he suddenly thought he could see them staring out of the darkness with their crimson holes of eyes. Brrrr . . .
Two more turns, and there was the hall with the columns, curse the godforsaken place. This was where all the trouble started.
This was the spot where Prokha had lain dead on the ground. Now he’d step out of the darkness, with his fingers spread wide, ready to grab. Ah-a-ah, he’d say, Speedy, you scum, I’ve been waiting for you for ages. It was your fault I met my death.
Senka dashed on quick to get as far away as he could from that bad place, glancing behind him – just to be on the safe side – and ready to cross himself if he saw a phantasmagoria.
He should have looked where he was going instead.
He ran straight into something, only it wasn’t a column, because the supports holding up the ceiling were hard, made of bricks, and this thing he’d run into was springy and it grabbed Senka round the throat with its hands. Then it hissed: ‘Here at last, are you? Now, where’s this Yiddish treasure of yours?’
The Ghoul! He was here already, waiting in the darkness!
Senka bleated in fright.
‘Ah, yes, you’re dumb, aren’t you?’ The terrifying man breathed the words right into Senka’s face then let go of his throat. ‘Come on then, show me the way.’
He really had come alone! He didn’t want to share the riches with his comrades. Now that was real greed for you.
Senka bleated and gurgled a bit more, then led the milker to the corner behind the last column. He pulled out the stones, slipped through the hole and waved his hand: Follow me!
He walked as slowly as he could, even though the Ghoul had lit a lamp and he could have got to the treasure in five minutes. But what was the hurry? He’d only have to spend fifteen minutes billing and cooing with this villainous malefactor, until Death brought her own monsters, the Prince and Deadeye. And then . . . but it was better not to think about what would happen then.
Despite all Senka’s efforts to go slow and put the moment off, the passage finally led them to that exit lined with white stone. Another three steps, and they were at the secret chamber.
‘Gu, gu,’ said Senka, pointing to a heap of silver billets.
The Ghoul shoved him aside and went rushing forward. He darted this way and that across the cellar, holding the lamp up high. Shadows leapt across the walls and vaulted ceiling. The milker stopped by the door blocked with a heap of broken bricks and stones.
This way, is it?’
Senka was still skulking by the way in. He even wondered whether he ought to turn back, leg it and see what happened. But what was the point? He’d probably just run into the Prince.
‘Where’s the treasure?’ the monster asked, stepping right up close to Senka. ‘Eh? Treasure? Understand? Where’s the silver?’
‘Bu, bu,’ the boy Motya replied, shaking his head and waving his arms. To gain time, he said a whole speech like he was talking in tongues: ‘Ulyulyu, ga-ga khryaps, ardi-burdi gulyumba, surdikgurdik ogo! Ashma li bunugu? Karmanda! Shikos-vikos shimpopo, duru-buru goplyalya . . .’
The Ghoul listened to this gibberish then grabbed the halfwit by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Where’s the silver?’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing here but trash and scrap iron! Have you pulled a fast one? I’ll slice off your ringlets and carve you into little pieces!’
Senka’s head bobbed back and forth and he didn’t like it one little bit. Just imagine – Senka being so impatient for the Prince to arrive! Where had they all got to, had they fallen asleep in that passage?
Maybe he should reveal the secret of the rods to the Ghoul? Erast Petrovich had said: ‘If things look like turning nasty, the boy Motya can recover the gift of speech.’ How much nastier could things get? Senka’s eyes were almost falling out of his head!
Senka opened his mouth to say something meaningful instead of goobledegook, but suddenly the Ghoul stopped shaking him, jerked his hands away and pricked up his ears. He must have heard something.
Soon Senka heard it too: footsteps and voices.
The milker kicked his lamp, which fell over and went out. Suddenly it was very dark.
But not for long.
‘. . . don’t you say anything?’ a muffled voice said from inside the narrow entrance, and then a bright, narrow ray of light came snaking out, fumbling its way across the vaults and along the walls. The Ghoul and Senka froze, but the light didn’t pick them out straight away.
Three people came in. The first, wearing a long frock coat, was holding an electric torch in his hand. The second was a woman. It was the third one, the last to set foot in the chamber, who was doing the talking.
‘Fine, don’t say anything, then,’ the Prince said bitterly. ‘You swap me for a black-face and you’ve got nothing to say? You’re a shameless bitch, that’s what you are, not Death.’
A match scraped as one of the new arrivals lit a kerosene lamp.
The chamber was suddenly bright.
‘Oo-la-la!’ the Jack exclaimed under his breath. He quickly put the lamp down on the floor, turned off the torch and put it in his pocket. ‘Well, fancy seeing you here!’
‘Ghoul!’ the Prince yelled. ‘Is that you?’
The milker didn’t say a word. He just whispered in Senka’s ear: ‘Well, you Yids really are cunning bastards. Get ready to die, you little shit.’
But the Prince seemed to think he was the one who’d been ambushed. He turned to Death: ‘Have you sold me out to this scum, you little slag?’
He raised his fist to hit her, and he was wearing a knuckleduster too. Death didn’t flinch or back away, she just smiled, but Senka howled in terror. A fine operation this was! Now they’d do them both in!
‘Wait, Prince!’ called Deadeye, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s not an ambush. He’s here alone, the kid doesn’t count.’
The Jack set off across the cellar with his springy stride, muttering: ‘There’s something wrong here, something wrong. And there’s no silver . . .’
Suddenly he turned towards the milker. ‘Monsieur Ghoul, you are not here on our account, are you? Otherwise, you would not have come alone, right?’
‘Stands to reason,’ the Ghoul answered warily, letting go of Senka and sticking both hands in his pockets. Oh Lord, now he was going to start shooting through his pants!
‘Then why?’ Deadeye asked with a glint of his specs. ‘Could it perhaps be on account of a certain treasure?’
The Ghoul’s eyes shifted rapidly to and fro, from one enemy to the other. ‘So?’
‘“So?” – I’ll take that as a yes. And who tipped you off?’ Deadeye stopped talking and signalled to the Prince not to do anything yet. ‘Not a Caucasian gentleman by the name of Kazbek, by any chance?’
‘No,’ said the Ghoul, knitting his sparse eyebrows. ‘An old Yid gave me the nod. And he gave me a guide, this little kike here.’
Deadeye snapped his fingers and rubbed his forehead. ‘Right, right. So what does this strange coincidence signify? A chasm opened wide, replete with stars ...’
‘What are you playing at?’ the Prince yelled, dashing at Death, but he lowered the hand with the knuckleduster. ‘What did you bring us here for?’
‘Just a moment, stop babbling,’ the Jack said, pulling him up short again. ‘She won’t tell you anything.’ He nodded in Senka’s direction. ‘Why don’t we sound out our little betrayer of Christ first?’
The betrayer sunk his head into his chest, wondering whether he ought to shout out about the treasure now or wait a bit longer.
The Ghoul twitched his chin. ‘He’s a loony, all he does is bleat. And when he starts flapping his tongue, you can’t understand a thing.’
‘He doesn’t look like a total loony,’ said Deadeye sauntering towards Senka. ‘Come on now, little gentleman of Jerusalem, talk to me, and I’ll listen.’
Senka started back from the crazy maniac. That made the Jack laugh.
‘Where to in such great haste, young Yiddish maid?’
He was right, there was nowhere to go. After just three steps Senka’s back hit the wall.
Deadeye took out his torch, shone it into Senka’s face and laughed. ‘The hair appears to be false,’ he said, and jerked the wig off Senka’s head. The red side locks and the skullcap slid over to one side. ‘Prince, look who we have here. Oh, how many wonderful discoveries—’
‘You whore!’ howled the Prince. ‘So you and your snot-nosed little lover-boy set the whole thing up! Right, Speedy, you tapeworm, this time you’re really done for!’
Now was just the right time, Senka realised. If things turned any nastier than this, he wouldn’t get another chance.
‘Don’t kill me!’ he shouted as loud as he could. ‘You’ll never find the treasure without me!’
The Jack grabbed the Prince by the shoulders. ‘Wait, we’re in no rush!’
But the Ghoul went flying at Senka instead. ‘So you’re in disguise?’ he yelled, and thumped Senka on the ear with his fist.
